


It Always Escalates

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode: s01e17 Hell House, Incest, Language, M/M, References to Underage, especially from 1x17-1x19, general season one spoilers, slight Dean angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to Hell House. Dean likes to think he's the ultimate master of pranks. Sam begs to differ, but his prank goes a little too far and hits a little too deep, messing up things Dean thought he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Always Escalates

Dean's sure this is one of the best ideas he's ever had. Seriously, he's like a damn genius or something.

Pranks are his specialty. Or one of them, anyway. He always wins. Maybe that has something to do with how Sam always throws in the towel when Dean gets particularly dirty, but whatever. A win is a win is a win. And seriously, the Nair in the shampoo bottle was epic. Sam missing patches of hair everywhere? It will never not make Dean laugh, especially when Sam gets that sour lemon look on his face and curses Dean's entire existence.

Whatever. Sam's a spoilsport sometimes, and it makes this prank all the more better for Dean.

Itching powder in Sam's briefs, goddamn Dean is brilliant.

It's hilarious watching Sam shift around, trying endlessly to get comfortable. And the way he keeps grabbing himself, adjusting and readjusting and scratching, well, that's more arousing than amusing. Not so much the scratching part, though. But it's still so damn genius of Dean because he knows, knows, Sam is about to come out of his skin with how bad he wants out of his clothes.

"Seriously, Dean. You're such a jerk," Sam says again, and really, it's kind of losing its meaning with how many times Sam has said it already.

They're back at their motel room for the night, the Hell House finally taken care of. The second they cross the threshold, Sam strips out of his jeans and retreats to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. The shower starts almost immediately, followed directly by Sam cursing Dean to hell and back over the sound of the water.

Dean sits on his bed, arms and legs crossed, smirking at Sam's never ending cursing. Boy's got such a mouth on him sometimes.

The shower finally shuts off and Sam stops mid-curse, much to Dean's amusement. He finally opens his mouth to fire back his retort, says, "Yeah, yeah, baldy, get some new material," and laughs hard when Sam's reply of "fuck you" comes back.

"You're such an ass, Dean," Sam says, walking out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips, a cloud of steam following behind him.

"Whatever, man. Looks like I won again," Dean says, and no matter how hard he tries to stop, his eyes follow the drops of water sliding down Sam's chest and stomach to the edge of the towel, remembering what it felt like beneath his hands and lips and tongue all those years ago.

But it was different then; everything was. Their relationship; them. Then, it was them against the world, SamandDean, always. The only other person they ever needed was each other, no matter the situation. It was common sense that the way they grew up was far from normal, but it was them, who they were, who they wanted to be at the time. A bond created when Dean was four and trusted with protecting his baby brother from their burning house, strengthened over time to needing and wanting in ways they shouldn't have but gave into because no one understood the other better, no one could ever be what the other was, not when Sam and Dean completed each other in every way possible.

Sure there were the thoughts of how sickbadwrong it was, but what it felt like, how they made each other feel whole - those close, intimate touches, the whispered promises of filth, the absolute completeness they felt when they were pressed flush together, sweaty and sated and tired - it all felt right, felt like nothing words would ever be able to describe, like nothing or no one would ever be able to break what they had, like there was nothing in the world that would ever be able to come between them.

At least that’s how Dean felt, right up until Sam left. It still hurts to think about sometimes, all those years without Sam, but all he has to do is look over to see Sam there again and it's okay, he can breathe. He felt like a dick for it in the beginning, when Sam was still so torn up over Jess, still screaming her name in the middle of the night, but Sam's presence has always grounded him, gave him focus, kept his head on his shoulders when the life got to him, rare as that was. It's Sam; Sam who's always been his other half, the one he feels lost without, and goddamn does that make him feel pathetic sometimes.

It's how it is, though. It's what this life has done to him, and Sam was lucky enough to get away from it for a while, but it still stings, the fact that Sam found happiness and normal in someone other than him, that they'll probably never have what they did before, that there’s no way Dean could ever give Sam the normal that he wants, and suddenly, Dean's plan seems less genius than he thought in the beginning.

"I'm red from all the scratching, Dean," Sam says, clearly irritated, pulling Dean’s focus back to him. He gestures towards his crotch and with a look of discomfort, he uses the rough texture of the towel to scratch again, even though Dean is almost positive that after the shower, there isn't really any reason for him to still be itchy, especially considering that in the last few hours, Sam hasn’t scratched once.

Not that Dean’s been paying attention to that or anything.

"Put some lotion on, then, you little princess," Dean says, eyes stuck on the outline of Sam's soft cock through the towel, and oh, that’s a beautiful image, Sam’s big hands rubbing lotion over the sensitive area of his crotch.

"I already did that," Sam grits out, drawing Dean's eyes up to his face.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it, Sam?" Dean asks, and it comes out with a lot less force than he wanted it to, laced instead with barely hidden want and oh god, he did not mean for it to come out that way, not now, not anymore.

Sam's eyes flash with heat and lust and Dean feels it all over, coursing through his veins like a fire spreading. Sam toys with the edge of the towel, unsure whether or not this is okay, and he seems to decide against removing it for a moment and instead takes a step towards Dean, searching, hoping, for a look that this is okay.

Dean swallows again and again, wants to say no, that they shouldn't, but he can't because yes, god yes; he wants, still wants, will always want.

He nods his head, a barely noticeable movement, but it's enough. Sam moves closer, hands still at the edge of the towel, untucking it but not letting it drop.

Dean sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, holding his breath while he waits. It takes less than a few seconds for Sam to stand between his legs, and when he does, Dean's hands replace Sam's on the towel, still holding it up.

"Your mouth would probably make me feel a little better," Sam says, and it's so stupid and lame that Dean can't help but snort.

It makes Sam flush a delicious shade of red, from his face down to his chest, and he's biting his bottom lip, white from the pressure of his teeth and Dean wants nothing more than to press his lips to Sam's, trace the indent of his teeth with his tongue.

He stands slowly, pushing Sam back to give himself the room to rise, and he carefully switches both sides of the towel to one hand, using his now free hand to pull Sam's bottom lip free. He runs the pad of his thumb over Sam's lips, moves his hand until it’s cradling Sam's neck and angles his head, holding his breath until their lips touch.

It's a heady rush of emotion that slams into him, makes him dizzy, hungry, and he pushes into it with more force, nipping at Sam's bottom lip until Sam opens up for him. He slides his tongue in alongside Sam's, traces over his teeth and the roof of his mouth, licks and licks at Sam's tongue until Sam is pushing back, forcing Dean's tongue into his own mouth so he can get at Dean's, filling his senses with everything that is Dean.

"God, Sammy," Dean whispers, and he unclenches his fist, letting the towel fall to the floor. He skims his knuckles over Sam's stomach, memorizing every dip of muscle and how fucking different Sam is now than he was before. He's no longer the wiry kid he once was, packed with muscle where Dean remembers only skin stretched over bone, Sam growing too fast for the rest of him to keep up with.

It's all different now and it sends another shock of arousal through Dean that his brother has turned into this - this gorgeous, built man standing in front of him.

"Off, Dean," Sam bites out, tugging at Dean's shirt. "Skin," he says, "wanna feel your skin."

Dean nods, a jerky move of his head and he steps back, letting Sam pull the shirt off. He lets his eyes slide down Sam's body, taking in his flushed chest and toned stomach, the cut of his hips, the proud jut of Sam's cock, thick and hard between his legs.

Sam pushes Dean down until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam back between his legs. Sam has grown everywhere, Jesus, thicker and longer than Dean remembers and he almost aches with the need to put his mouth on Sam.

He moves to wrap his lips around the head, but Sam stops him and Dean gets it in an instant: Sam lives for the buildup, the teasing, until he’s shaking with the need to have Dean’s mouth around him, and Dean is glad to see that some things haven’t changed. He licks his lips, eyes locked with Sam’s, then he nudges at Sam’s hip with his nose, following the cut of it with his lips. He licks at the indent where the skin is stretched over the bone, then noses back down to the crease of Sam’s thigh, licking away the taste of soap and lotion until all that’s left is Sam, salt and sweat on his tongue.

Sam sighs above him, quiet and breathy, fingers threading through the spikes of Dean's hair, just tight enough to make a shudder run up Dean's spine.

"Oh, fuck, Dean," Sam groans, knees buckling when Dean's tongue licks teasingly over his balls, pulling harder on Dean's hair when Dean starts mouthing at them, sucking them into his mouth and laving over them with his tongue.

Dean releases them softly, flicks his tongue out against them before licking up the crease of Sam's other thigh, up to the indent of his hip where he sucks hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck, fuck, enough," Sam says, and he pulls at Dean's face, tilts his head back with one hand while the other presses the head of his cock to Dean's swollen lips, tracing the plumpness of them and making them shine with precome.

This is - god, this is new. Sam had never taken charge like this before, still so shy and unsure of himself, blushing and stammering every time Dean would ask him what he wanted, how he wanted it, covering his face whenever Dean said anything remotely dirty.

Now, though, Sam is pressing forward, and Dean's opening up for him, eager to feel the weight of Sam on his tongue. He traces the head with the tip of his tongue, dips into the slit, lets the taste of Sam explode on his tongue.

Sam's thumb is pressing in against his cheek and Dean can't even think with how fucking hot that is, Sam feeling himself sliding deeper into Dean's mouth, every thick inch until he's at the back of Dean's throat.

Dean loves this - not that he'd ever admit it - the thickness of Sam, the heat, the taste, every fucking thing, and he moans with how good it is, licking and sucking like he's starving for it. His moans make Sam jolt forward, shoving his cock in deeper, gripping his hair tighter, and Dean reaches out, plants his hands on Sam’s hips, uses it as leverage to move Sam in and out of his mouth, tonguing at the vein on the underside, at the nerves below the head, licking over and around the smooth ridge of the crown.

“Fuck, Dean. So fucking good.” Sam pulls in a shallow, shaky breath, exhales quick, then inhales sharply, over and over, fucking into the wet suction of Dean’s mouth, jerky rolls of his hips that Dean chases, swallowing Sam down as far as he can until Sam groans, long and low, coming down Dean’s throat with a force that leaves him struggling to pull in a breath, grateful for Dean’s hands on him because they’re the only thing keeping him upright.

Dean sucks him through it, tonguing at the slit until Sam twitches away from it, wincing and groaning at the overstimulation.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean says after he’s let Sam slide free. He kisses Sam’s hip right over the bruise he sucked into the skin, and then Sam’s hauling him up, licking into his mouth, chasing the taste of himself and Dean’s so fucking hard his dick is threatening to break the zipper of his jeans.

He tries to get Sam to touch him, tries to thrust against Sam’s hip, but Sam pulls back and yawns, says, “Sorry, man, ‘m tired. Got some stuff to do in the morning,” and immediately climbs into the other bed, leaving Dean standing there, confused and hard and pissed.

“The fuck, man?” Dean growls, hands balled into fists at his side. Sam’s only response is an exaggerated snore and Dean flirts with the idea of yanking Sam out of the fucking bed and punching him right in his mouth. He storms off to the bathroom instead, slamming the door shut behind him as hard as he can.

He's not sure whether he's more pissed or hurt at this point. There's the part of him that's pissed because Sam didn't reciprocate, left him high and fucking dry, that little fucker, but more than that, there's the overwhelming sense of hurt and terror that's clawing up his insides. It's like once his orgasm subsided, once he was no longer drunk with the arousal coursing through him, Sam suddenly remembered that they don't do this anymore, that he doesn't need Dean in every way like he used to, and now that he's actually lived a life away from hunting, from Dean being the only person he ever needed, wanted, he realized there's so much sickbadwrong to it and Dean can't - he doesn't know what to do with that.

He's already gone through it all himself, angsted over it in his head time and time again before he allowed their relationship to take that final step, and now - now there's all this guilt flooding his veins, making him so sick he can barely breathe.

It's like - he feels like he took advantage of Sam when they were younger, that Sam really didn't know better despite what he said, that the only reason Sam went along with it was because he constantly craved Dean's approval, wanted to be just like his big brother, never mind the fact that it was Sam who pushed until Dean caved, but Sam's always been an intuitive little shit and maybe Dean didn't do as good of a job at hiding his not so brotherly feelings as he thought he did, and it was something Sam picked up on and used as a way to garner more of Dean's approval and maybe Sam let it happen like he did because there was no way he'd ever be able to develop that kind of physical or emotional closeness with someone he went to school with, what with all the moving around they did, and Dean had already filled so many other roles in his life, why wouldn’t he be able to fill that one, too?

His head is spinning and none of his thoughts even make sense, but he can’t fucking think over the terror and anxiety he feels.

Dean shakes his head, bites his lip, turns on the shower and sets the water to as cold as it gets. It's when he's shivering through scrubbing his body clean that he remembers Sam's words from weeks earlier. Sam said he didn't want things to go back to the way they used to be. Dean thought that only meant the family dynamic, the three Winchesters hunting together again, but Jesus, he's so fucking stupid; obviously Sam meant that in every way it could be taken. Why would he want such a sick and twisted relationship when he knows what it's like to have something normal?

He scrubs hard enough that his skin turns red, until the only thing he can smell on himself is the cheap motel soap.

If this is how Sam wants it to be, fine. Dean will deal. He’ll shove it away, put it at the back of his mind, forget about what he thought, if only for a moment, he and Sam had a chance of getting back. They’ll be brothers, strictly that and nothing more, like the normal Sam so badly craves. He lived without having Sam that way for almost four years; he sure as hell can do it again.

\--

Sam doesn’t mention what happened that night, but it’s not like Dean expected him to. It’s almost like nothing even happened, the way Sam goes on and on about nothing and everything, being his usual geek self over research.

It’s just his luck that they have to deal with the shtriga right on the heels of it. He doesn’t want to have to relive the pain of one of his most monumental fuck ups, of Sammy almost being killed on his watch, and it’s so much worse now with Sam telling him that he was only a kid, trying to offer comfort through the softness of his voice and Dean doesn’t want it, wants to tell Sam to shut up, that he doesn’t know what it feels like, carrying something around like that, knowing the only reason Sam’s still alive is because their dad showed up just in the nick of time.

It’s all so much pain and emotion Dean would rather live without, the shtriga and Sam and everything else, piling up and up and up with nowhere to go and Dean needs to get out, needs to clear his head, but dammit, Sam won’t let him out of his sight, trailing after him when Dean slinks off to a bar after emptying the clip of his gun into the fucking shtriga.

It gets easier in the days that follow, Dean shoving it all down until the only thing that’s on his mind is the next case, the next city and really, Dean thinks he’s dealing just fine. He takes every opportunity presented to him to hit on whatever female he comes across, openly eyeing them up and down, much to Sam’s displeasure. He can’t help the giddy feeling that flows through him every time Sam sends him a disapproving glare, but fuck that. Sam made his choice and this is how Dean is dealing.

Then they meet Sarah and Dean kind of hates everything. He doesn’t miss the way she checks Sam out, the way her eyes linger on Sam’s big hands, the broadness of his shoulders, his long, long legs, the front of his jeans, and he has to shove down the urge to tell her to back off, that Sam’s his.

Instead, he does what any awesome brother would do: he tells Sam to go for it, that Sarah wants him, that she’d be good for him. He pushes and pushes until Sam starts cracking, until Sam finally tells him to back off, and Dean can’t help it, he pushes a little more, tells Sam that if it’s because of Jess that Jess would want him to be happy, and he’s not expecting it when Sam tells him that that’s only part of the reason. He tries pushing for more, wants to know what the rest of the reason is, but Sam clams up and Dean lets it go; he has no other choice and besides, they’ve still got a job to finish.

\--

It’s like a breath of fresh air when they finally leave New York. Dean’s man enough to admit – at least to himself – that it stung a little watching Sam kiss Sarah, but he’s the one that kept pushing so he’s really only got himself to blame. Still, he’s glad to be out of that damn state, driving with no actual destination in mind.

It’s one of those rare times where they can’t seem to find a case, but that suits Dean just fine. It means they’ve got some time to replenish their stock of cash and he’s more than okay with spending a couple nights out at whatever bar they can find.

Except Sam thinks it’s a damn good idea to get drunk out of his mind, tripping over his too long legs every time he tries to walk.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean grouses, wrapping his arm around Sam’s waist and slinging Sam’s arm over his shoulder, guiding him out of the bar and into the Impala.

Sam’s a handsy drunk, something Dean had completely forgotten. He’s all over Dean, touching his arm, his face, his neck, sliding his fingers back and forth along the inner seam of Dean’s jeans.

“Sam, knock it off,” Dean says, pulling his hand away from the steering wheel to smack Sam’s hand away, but it does nothing; Sam keeps sliding his fingers up higher and higher until they’re grazing against Dean’s balls and Dean has had enough. He steps on the gas, drives as quick as he can to their motel and breathes out a relieved sigh when he parks and shuts the engine off, damn near jumping out the car door to get away from Sam.

He feels like an asshole watching Sam stumble out of the car, but dammit, Sam made his choice and Dean’s trying to be okay with it and that’s not going to happen if he keeps going like he is. Dean can only resist so much when it comes to Sam.

“Hi,” Sam says, giggling, crowding Dean up against the door. The sharp smell of liquor hits Dean full-force and it’s all he can do not to throw Sam off of him. It really doesn’t help when Sam starts nuzzling the side of his neck, dragging his lips across the sensitive skin, and it takes all of Dean’s coordination to get the key into the lock.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean says, voice gruff, hauling Sam in when he finally gets the door open. He drags Sam over to his bed, pushes him down on it and orders him to go the fuck to sleep because he is not in the mood to deal with Sam’s drunken shit tonight.

“Wha? Dean?” Sam tries to grab Dean’s wrist, but Dean’s too quick and Sam’s coordination is for shit right now. He ends up missing completely, too much momentum behind the arm he flung out sending him to the floor. There’s the expected grunt of displeasure, followed by the completely unexpected laughter and Dean’s standing there, staring at Sam because Jesus, he’s a fucking mess.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Dean says. “Get off the floor and go to bed.”

He stays in the shower a lot longer than he usually does, straining his hearing until he can no longer make out the sounds of Sam’s drunken stumbling and cursing. When he finally exits the bathroom – after spending an unnecessary amount of time brushing his teeth – he’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, and the first thing he sees is that Sam is most definitely not asleep. He is in bed, though, which counts for a whole lot of nothing, considering his state of complete undress and the heated look he sends Dean.

Dean swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry. “What are you doing, Sam?” he asks, pulling his gaze from the planes of Sam’s flushed chest, staring hard at the wall like it’ll make Sam put some damn clothes on.

“Want you, Dean,” Sam says, all soft and breathy.

Dean musters up every ounce of willpower he has and says no, tells Sam that he just needs to go to sleep, it’s late, they’re both tired. Sam doesn’t quite put up a fight, but he doesn’t let it go, either.

“Dean,” Sam whines, dragging Dean’s name out the way he used to when he was little and wanted something, a pleading that Dean was never quite able to say no to.

“Just go to sleep, man, please.” Dean grabs a pair of boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, retreats to the bathroom to change, and when he gets back out, he sees that Sam seems to have given up, curled up under the covers with his back facing Dean’s bed.

Dean immediately wants to apologize, tell Sam that he’s sorry, but he really has nothing to apologize for. Sam’s the one who pushed him away first; Dean’s just doing what Sam wants – wanted? Dean’s not even sure anymore.

“G’night, Sammy,” he says, crawling under the scratchy blankets of his own bed, turning off the lamp between their beds.

Sam doesn’t reply.

\--

To say things are awkward the next morning would be the understatement of the century. It’s a little more bearable, however, thanks to Sam’s hangover from hell.

Conversation is stilted over breakfast and the atmosphere remains tense and stifling when they get back to the motel. Sam immediately heads for his laptop and Dean settles himself on his bed, flipping through the stacks of newspapers he brought back with him, intent on finding a job.

The room is silent save for the soft whirring of the fan on Sam’s laptop, the typing click of keys, the rustling of newspaper, so it startles Dean when Sam slams the laptop shut, clearing his throat in a way that means he’s going to talk and Dean is going to shut up and listen.

“I told you the pranking shit was stupid.”

“What?” Dean asks, brow furrowed, wondering if maybe he’s missed some part of the conversation.

“It was a prank, dude,” Sam says, like that’s supposed to clue Dean in on what he’s talking about.

“What the hell are you talking about, Sam?”

Sam clears his throat, bites his lip, stares at a spot on the wall directly behind Dean’s shoulder before he says, “Y’know, that night.”

Oh. _Oh._

“That was a fucking prank? That wasn’t funny, Sam,” Dean yells, and goddamn is he pissed.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t funny when you put Nair in my shampoo, either, or the itching powder all over my underwear,” Sam says, voice rising to match Dean’s tone.

“No, Sam, those two things are on completely different levels and the fact that you even thought that that was a good prank is beyond fucked up.”

“What are you getting so worked up over it for? It was just a fucking prank, Dean.”

"No, Sam. A prank is fucking with the volume and windshield wipers in the car, or super gluing my hand to a beer bottle. If fucking with me like that is your idea of a prank, you are seriously messed up in the head, so whatever, man. Good job, you've outdone me this time," Dean says, seething.

“Goddammit, Dean, just tell me why you’re so pissed off about it,” Sam says, demands, rising from his seat at the rickety table, moving closer towards Dean’s bed.

“I said forget it, Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, exasperated. He lifts the newspaper he was looking through so it’s covering his face, half-heartedly scanning over the page though he’s taking absolutely none of it in.

A second passes, then another, and another, then suddenly the paper is being ripped out of his hands and Sam is standing there, face pinched, jaw set in anger.

“This is ridiculous, Dean. Just tell me what the fuck is wrong.”

“Goddammit, Sam. If you seriously don’t know what’s wrong with what you did, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“So tell me then, because apparently I’m a fucking idiot,” Sam says, throwing his arms up.

Dean really does not want to have this discussion, doesn’t want Sam to know how fucking pathetic he is, how much of a chick he’s being because of this, but Sam’s as stubborn as they come and Dean knows there’s no way he’s getting out of having this conversation.

“I don’t know. I just – I thought you realized you were making a mistake or something and that’s why you pushed me away,” Dean says, glossing right over the actual reason, even though he knows Sam is going to push him until he explodes with it.

“I – what?” Sam asks, shaking his head in confusion.

“You were gone for almost four years, Sam, and in that time, you found a girl that you fell in love with, a girl that you were planning on marrying, so excuse me for thinking that you realized you made a mistake by letting me blow you.”

“No, that’s not – it was -”

“It was just a prank,” Dean finishes for him. “Yeah, I got that, Sam, thanks.”

“So, what? I don’t – Dean, just tell me what I did wrong,” Sam pleads, and goddammit.

“I thought you realized how disgusting it was, okay? I thought that maybe you decided you really didn’t want what we had and that I was only taking advantage of you when we were younger because you were always looking for my approval and thought that maybe that was the way to earn it and -”

“And you say I’m an idiot? Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, interrupting what was sure to be a long, rambling mess of shit that wouldn’t make sense.

“What was I supposed to think, huh?”

“I sure as hell didn’t think you were gonna end up thinking all that,” Sam replies. “First off, I get that what’s between us isn’t exactly normal or okay by most peoples’ standards, but I have never once thought it was disgusting. Never. Second, you’re an idiot if you thought you were taking advantage of me, because as I seem to recall it, you were too big of a chickenshit to make the first move, so I had to.”

“Because I didn’t want to take advantage of you!” Dean exclaims.

“Exactly, Dean,” Sam says, lips quirking into a smile. “You never took advantage of me, you dumbass. You always left it up to me, which, dude, for the record, made me think you weren’t into it, then.”

“You kidding me, man?”

“Dean, I was a scrawny ass teenager with a fuckton of insecurities about how I looked and you, god. You were you: broad shoulders, those lips, all that confidence; why would someone that looked like you want some scrawny teenager that looked like me?”

“You were an idiot, then,” Dean says. “I wanted you all the damn time.”

“And you’re an idiot now,” Sam retorts. “I still want you all the damn time.”

“But you said you didn’t want things to go back to the way they used to be. I thought you were including things between us,” Dean says softly, looking anywhere that isn’t Sam’s face because he doesn’t think he can handle the look Sam is surely giving him right now.

“No, Dean, that’s not what I meant at all,” Sam says, and he pushes Dean’s legs aside so he can sit beside him, placing a hand on Dean’s knee, brushing his thumb back and forth over the denim-covered bone.

Dean swallows, feels his face flush, then reaches his hand down to cup himself.

Sam licks his lips, tracks Dean’s movement with a heated focus, asks, “What are you doing?”

“Just checkin’ that my dick hasn’t run off because of all this damn sharing and caring,” Dean replies.

“Uh – yeah. D-definitely wouldn’t want your dick running off,” Sam says in agreement, eyes still stuck on the bulge created by the way Dean’s legs are crossed.

“C’mon, bitch, lunch time,” Dean says, and it’s hard not to smirk at the sudden frown that passes Sam’s lips before it turns into a half-hearted smile.

“Lunch, sure, yeah,” Sam mumbles, no doubt hoping things would’ve gone a little differently.

Too bad it’s not going to happen, at least not right now, no matter how much Dean wants to throw Sam down onto the bed and map out every change of his body.

Sam can wait a little longer; serves him right for his horrendously stupid prank.

\--

Sam’s jittery all through lunch, poking at his salad, drumming his fingers against the table top, bouncing his leg up and down, and it’s seriously starting to ruin Dean’s appetite. He just wants to enjoy his burger, dammit, but Sam’s this big ball of restless energy, barely managing to contain his less than appropriate glances, and okay, fuck, there’s no way Dean can take another bite, damn Sam.

He wipes his hands and his mouth, pulls his wallet from inside his jacket and throws a twenty down onto the tabletop, not really caring that it’ll more than cover the bill and the tip. He slides out of the booth and heads for the door, sparing a look over his shoulder to ensure that Sam is following him, chuckling when he sees Sam stumble over his feet in order to catch up.

“Thought you learned to control those gigantic legs of yours years ago, Sammy,” Dean says, pushing open the diner door.

“Very funny, Dean,” mutters Sam, cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and it’s like a throwback in time, Dean teasing Sam during the growth spurt where Sam shot up and up and up, constantly tripping over himself with the new length of his legs.

It’s a short drive from the diner back to their motel, but Dean feels every second of it, the heat and the lust coming off of Sam in waves, wrapping around him, fire surging through his veins.

They've barely made it inside their motel room before Sam is on him, pushing him up against the door with a hand on his hip and the other on his jaw, tilting his head until it's the way Sam wants it and then Sam's lips are there, rough and demanding, and Dean's a little surprised his lip hasn't split from the force of it, but this is good, so fucking good, Sam a solid weight pressed against him, the heat of his body bleeding through the layers he's wearing, setting Dean ablaze.

Dean's hands itch with the need for skin to skin contact, wants to feel all that warm skin against his own, but Sam’s mouthing at the line of his jaw, tiny little nips that he soothes with his tongue, and all Dean can do is fist his hands in Sam’s hair, struggling to catch his breath.

“C’mon, Dean, off,” Sam says – growls, fuck – pushing ineffectively at Dean’s jacket.

“Fuck, hang on,” Dean replies, and he pushes Sam back so he can step away from the door, moving closer towards the beds where he finally sheds his jacket and button-down, removing his boots and socks, too. “Whatcha waitin’ for, Sammy?” he teases, quirking up an eyebrow.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sam says, quickly closing the distance between them. His hands immediately go to the hem of Dean’s shirt, pushing it up until Dean takes it into his own hands and pulls it off, and when Dean’s head pops free, Sam’s going down on his knees and Dean’s ready to come from that sight alone.

Dean’s knees buckle and his legs threaten to give out the second Sam’s lips touch the skin of his stomach, a barely there pressure that gets stronger the lower Sam moves. He nips along the waistband of Dean’s pants, noses at the light trail of hair below Dean’s bellybutton, then finally, _finally_ , unbuckles his belt and pops open the button of his jeans, pulling the zipper down at an agonizingly slow speed.

It’s a challenge for Dean not to tell Sam to hurry the fuck up before he dies of blue balls or before he just takes care of it himself, because knowing Sam, he’ll either go even slower, or he’ll tell Dean fine, he’ll just sit back and watch, which, okay, Sam watching him jerk off isn’t something he’s totally opposed to, it’s just not what he wants right now. But what he does want right now? Sam’s mouth on him, please and fucking thank you.

Sam hooks his thumbs into the belt loops, using them to tug Dean’s jeans down his hips. They’re barely past Dean’s thighs when he starts mouthing at Dean’s cock through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs, working his mouth along the shaft until the material is wet with his spit, clinging obscenely to Dean’s length. He stops when he gets to the tip, eyeing the damp spot where Dean’s precome has soaked through before he sets his lips to it, sucking the taste into his mouth.

“Dammit, Sammy, c’mon,” Dean urges, sliding a hand through Sam’s unruly hair, tugging hard enough to make it sting.

“So bossy, jeez,” Sam says, but he pushes Dean’s boxer-briefs down and sucks him right in, tongue slipping over and around the head.

“Oh, god,” Dean groans, eyes rolling back in his head from the pleasure thrumming through him. Sam’s a delicious, wet warmth around him, tracing every vein with the tip of his tongue, swirling it around the head and dipping into the slit.

He almost loses his head when Sam swallows him down, his throat so fucking tight around him, and Sam has gotten so much better at this, taking Dean’s cock like his mouth was made for it.

There’s the fleeting thought of Sam doing this to some guy he went to school with and it sends a deep surge of possessiveness through Dean and he snaps his hips forward, fucking into Sam’s mouth. No one but him gets to have Sam like this, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, lips spit-slick and swollen, hair in complete disarray, on his knees working his mouth like it’s all he needs to survive.

Dean pulls in a shaky breath, skimming the tips of his fingers down the hollow of Sam’s cheek. His eyes lock with Sam’s and Sam sucks a little harder, tonguing at the nerves below the head, eyes sliding shut as he hums in pleasure. The vibrations travel through Dean’s cock, zipping up his spine, heat pooling low in his belly, and he’s close, so fucking close, the tingling sensation spreading from the base of his spine outward, toes curling into the scratchy texture of the motel room’s carpet.

It’s just his luck that Sam pulls off then, fingers circling the base of his cock and squeezing hard. Dean is so not down with this teasing bullshit.

“Not yet, okay?” Sam says, petting his hip softly. “Wanna fuck you, Dean, please.”

Dean groans, nods his head yes, pulling Sam to his feet. “A little too dressed for that, don’t ya think?” he asks, pulling at the front of Sam’s shirt.

Sam shrugs a shoulder, hands flying over the buttons of his shirt and then he’s sliding it down his arms, throwing it to the bed behind him. Dean pushes Sam’s shirt up, going up on his tip-toes to pull it all the away off. Fucking gigantor Sam is.

“Jesus, why are you still wearing so much fucking clothes,” Dean mutters, making quick work of Sam’s belt and the button and zipper of his jeans. “And you’re still wearing your shoes? Oh, for the love of -”

“Keep it up, man, and you can finish on your own,” Sam bites back, nearly tripping when he tries to get rid of his shoes, an almost impossible task with the way his pants are bunched around his ankles.

“You were never this bad before,” Dean says, shaking his head.

“Hm, yep, alright. Have fun takin’ care of that yourself,” Sam says, circling the head of Dean’s dick with the tip of his finger before he moves like he’s trying to get away. Dean catches him with a hand around his wrist, pushing him back onto the bed and ridding him of his remaining clothes.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Dean says, and he wraps his hand around Sam’s cock, smirking when Sam instantly thrusts up into his grip.

“Oh, god,” Sam groans, fisting his hands in the sheets, thrusting up repeatedly into Dean’s fist, a grip that loosens with every roll of his hips. “Fucking c’mon, Dean,” he pleads, whimpering in frustration when Dean’s touch is gone completely.

“I don’t have any lube,” Dean says, turning to the other bed and rifling through his jacket for his wallet, tossing the square foil he pulls from it at Sam. “And I am not taking that with spit,” he adds, gesturing towards Sam’s cock.

“There’s uh – lube in my backpack,” Sam says in a rush of breath, going up on his forearms, eyes roving over every bare inch of Dean’s skin, from his broad shoulders to the dip of his spine, the curve of his ass to the bow of his legs.

“Quit watching me, you creep,” Dean says teasingly, holding up the tube of lube in victory. “Looks like you’ve been a busy boy, eh, Sammy?” he comments, shaking the half-used tube.

Sam shrugs in response and starts stroking himself loosely, a move that makes Dean shudder with how badly he wants and he crosses the distance quickly, motioning for Sam to move up against the pillows.

Dean sets the lube off to the side and straddles Sam’s hips, groaning at the heat and friction of Sam’s cock against his.

“Gonna ride me, big brother?” Sam asks, voice dipping down low, hands gripping Dean’s hips tight.

“Oh, Jesus.” Dean gasps, hips grinding down of their own volition. That – that is most definitely new, the confidence, the tone, the fucking words themselves. It’s nothing Sam ever would’ve said before and it further cements how different Sam is now than how he was three and a half years ago, but goddamn if Dean isn’t going to celebrate the change a little, especially with Sam talking like that.

“I’ll – ah, god, Dean – take that as a yes,” Sam says, moving his hips with Dean’s. “Hey, lean forward a little,” he instructs, reaching blindly for the lube, keeping one hand anchored on Dean’s hip. He gets his fingers slicked up without spilling too much, then reaches back behind Dean, sliding the tips of his fingers down the crack of Dean’s ass until he reaches the tight furl of his hole.

Dean pulls in a shaky breath, leaning forward a little more to rest his forehead against Sam’s before he crashes their lips together, soothing the biting sting with his tongue, gasping against Sam’s mouth when the first slick finger slides in.

Sam’s hands are a thing of absolute beauty, wide palms and long, slender fingers, capable of turning Dean into a pile of goo with the way he’s using them, working him open with one, then two, sliding them in and out with ease, and all Dean can do is fuck back against them, moaning into Sam’s mouth every time Sam’s fingers slide against his prostate.

The stretch and burn of the third finger has him twitching away instinctively, but Sam goes right for that spot, wringing a deep moan from Dean’s throat. Sam doesn’t spend nearly as long working him open with three fingers and Dean’s glad for that. He wants to feel the stinging stretch of Sam’s cock sliding in, knows how much better it’ll be for Sam, too, the tightness surrounding him, pulling him in.

“M’ready, Sam,” Dean says, all soft and breathy, reaching for the condom and handing it to Sam.

“You do it,” Sam says, pressing the foil back into Dean’s hand.

Dean swallows, says, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” sitting up and inching back. He tears open the foil and removes the rubber, smoothing it down Sam’s cock in an easy stroke. “Lube,” he says, holding his hand out for the tube, slicking Sam up with a tight fist.

“S’good, Dean,” Sam says, stopping Dean’s strokes with a hand around his wrist.

Dean smirks and rubs his thumb under the head, pulling away in satisfaction when Sam curses. He rises up on his knees, giving Sam enough space to grip his cock and hold it in position while Dean sinks down, breathing rough and ragged as the tip slides in, a stinging pleasure that ricochets through him. He eases himself down slowly, hands anchored on Sam’s chest for leverage, inch by inch until his ass is flush against Sam’s hips.

“Fuck, need a minute,” Dean says, blowing out a slow breath. He feels too full, split wide open, a sensation he wasn’t aware he missed until now and he just needs a minute to take it all in, Sam here with him like this, sweaty and flushed and grinning so damn wide his dimples are showing like he knows exactly what Dean’s thinking and feeling.

“Good?” Sam asks, thumb brushing over the ridge of Dean’s hipbone.

“M’good,” Dean replies, and then he starts moving, rising up and sinking back down, cock bobbing heavily with the movement.

Sam meets every downward thrust, snapping his hips up into Dean, grip so tight on Dean’s hips there’s sure to be bruises. “So fucking tight, Dean,” he groans, letting out a sharp gasp when Dean sinks down hard.

“Not my fault you’re fucking huge,” Dean retorts, grinding his hips forward and back, searching for the angle that’ll have Sam’s cock right up against his prostate. “God, right there,” he grunts when he finds it, and Sam starts driving his hips upward, striking that spot with every roll of his hips, pulling these breathy little ah-ah’s from Dean’s mouth.

“Hang on, okay?” Sam says, then he’s suddenly flipping them around and Dean would be a little offended at Sam’s manhandling if he didn’t find it so fucking hot.

Sam hooks Dean's leg around his hip, uses it for leverage as he starts driving his hips in earnest, fucking into Dean with quick, smooth thrusts, pulling out until only the tip is inside before he slams back in, over and over until he's shaking with the need to come. He fists his hand around Dean’s cock and Dean’s so grateful for it he’s nearly sobbing in relief. Sam marvels at how slick the head is, rubbing his fingers through the mess of precome that’s oozed from the slit, spreading it down the shaft to ease the slide of his hand.

Between the tight strokes of Sam’s fist and the way he’s fucking into Dean relentlessly, it doesn’t take long for Dean’s orgasm to creep up on him, a pleasant tingling that rips through him, back arching up off the bed, toes curling, hands scrabbling for purchase on Sam’s sweat-slick back as he comes over Sam’s fist and his own stomach, biting his bottom lip to stifle the moans of satisfaction threatening to spill free.

“Oh, fuck,” Sam curses, crushing his lips to Dean’s, licking into his mouth and swallowing down every sound Dean makes, thrusting into Dean with so much force the bed creaks. The way Dean’s clenching around him, tight, so fucking tight, is too much for him to take, coupled with the sight of Dean coming undone, and Sam’s done for, snapping his hips hard one last time before he’s coming, shaking all over with the intensity of it. He bites Dean’s bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth to soothe it, then pulls away, sitting up as he catches his breath.

Dean’s pupils are still blown wide, black eating at the green, lips swollen and red, flushed pink down to his chest and Sam can’t believe Dean would ever think he didn’t want him.

“Gonna pull out now?” Dean asks, clenching purposely around Sam, causing Sam to hiss at the overstimulation.

“Hang on, princess,” Sam says, gripping the base of his softening cock and pulling out, immediately disposing of the condom. He shoves Dean over and Dean shoves him back, but he makes room for Sam to drop down beside him anyway, folding his hands together on top of his stomach.

“I’m still mad at you, y’know,” Dean says after a minute, lifting his hands with a grimace when he notices his come drying on them.

“C’mon, Dean, I said I was sorry,” Sam says, turning to lay on his side facing Dean.

“No, I’m pretty sure you didn’t,” Dean replies, pursing his lips as he thinks about it. “Nope, you didn’t.”

“Well, I am,” Sam says. “It was stupid and inconsiderate of me, and I’ll never do it again.”

“You better not or I swear, I’ll do something worse than Nair in your shampoo or itching powder in your briefs,” Dean promises. He leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips, a silent confirmation that his apology is accepted, then says, “I’m gonna take a shower. I’m getting itchy.”

“Not so pleasant, is it?” Sam asks, grinning. “Don’t use all the hot water. I wanna shower, too.”

“Quiet, bitch,” Dean says, mock scowling, pointing a finger at Sam.

Sam shakes his head, sticks his tongue out and replies, “Whatever, jerk. Now go shower, you stink.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, disappearing into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

\--

Dean exits the bathroom in a cloud of smoke, towel wrapped around his waist, feeling loose and relaxed.

“Did you save me any hot water?” Sam asks, already making his way towards the bathroom.

“Um, probably a little?” Dean says, rubbing the tips of his fingers over his bottom lip.

Sam rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he walks into the bathroom.

Dean changes into a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, figuring he’ll put actual clothes on if they decide to go anywhere, then settles himself on his bed, waiting.

Over the sound of the shower comes Sam’s voice, yelling, “Dammit, Dean, what the fuck did you do to the shampoo now?”

Dean laughs long and hard, schooling his expression into something more neutral when Sam pulls open the bathroom door, brandishing the bottle of shampoo in Dean’s direction.

Yeah, Dean really isn’t very good at learning his lesson.


End file.
